


Resignation

by misti4492



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Background Georgie Barker/Melanie King, Depression, Grief/Mourning, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Isolation, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Social Anxiety, Spoilers for The Magnus Archives Season 5
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:41:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24463684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misti4492/pseuds/misti4492
Summary: There was more than one way to leave the Institute. If only Martin had known.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 11
Kudos: 99





	Resignation

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!  
> Wow, it has been forever since I worked on fanfiction and this is the first time I've written for this fandom. Not sure how well I captured these characters. Either way, I spent a day depressing myself with this idea so please mind the tags (I added more CW to the bottom note just in case)!  
> This was not beta'd, so if you see any mistakes, feel free to point them out so I can fix them.  
> Also spoilers for up to MAG 167 Curiosity!

It was sad how startling a knock on the door was when Martin couldn’t remember the last time someone offered the courtesy. Guess that was what happened after spending months under the Lonely’s influence, fading away from sight. Embracing its silence entirely too much—Martin must admit. His only visitor these days was Peter spewing on about the Extinction and how important Martin was to blah, blah, blah.

And Jon barging in a couple of days ago…

Martin rubbed his face. Right, that mess. Far as he was aware, no one followed through. At least, he hadn’t heard of anyone leaving the Institute. Or maybe it was that he just didn’t care. Maybe this was someone informing him of an eyeball related incident. Honestly, had it not been for the appearance of the tape recorder, Martin wouldn’t have bothered with the polite gesture.

“Who’s so important to capture your attention, hmm?” Martin asked the recorder as he shuffled his notes into a neat stack. “Right, no answers for me then.”

Another knock, impatient with its quick raps against the door, caused Martin to let out a sigh.

“Yes, come in?” Martin called out, surprised when the swinging door revealed Basira.

Hesitation tainted her calm confidence as she gently closed the door and made her slow approach towards Martin. She settled opposite from him, the resulting drag of the chair felt entirely too loud in Martin’s small office. Martin tensed under the intensity of her gaze, a silent challenge to fade away. He doubted his fledgling grasp of the Lonely would offer him the courtesy. Besides, he was curious about what caught the intrusive attention of the tape that hummed along on his desk.

So, he fought the temptation to disappear from their staring match until the former detective closed her eyes with a soft sigh. Instead, Basira reached forward, settling a small stack of letters and two tapes. A glance at the top of the stack showed the letters were addressed to Peter. The tapes—the tapes, however, caught his attention. While one was labeled with a scrawl that matched those found on Gertrude’s tapes, both were covered in reddish-brown.

Blood, Martin mentally supplied as he stared at the tapes, the tapes were covered with dried blood.

“Wha—” Martin began.

“These are the resignation letters from Melanie, Daisy, and I. I suggest you do the same while you still have the chance.”

“Wait, you’re resigning?” Martin gasped as he reached for the paper and noted the copy-paste resignations, each one listing a different name. Martin glanced back at Basira, staring at her two perfectly intact eyes. “How are you resigning? Jon said that the only way to—”

“You spoke to Jon?” Basira interrupted, brow furrowing as she jerked forward, hand pressed against the desk as she leaned slightly off the chair. “You knew about this?”

“Jon came in a couple of days ago, said we can quit if we—if we gouged out our eyes. I thought he told you—didn’t he tell you?” Martin asked, watching the way Basira’s face fell as she slowly sat back down, her lips thinning. This time it was Martin’s turn to panic. “W-what did he do?”

Basira sat there, staring at the unlabeled tape.

“Basira.” He wanted to reach out and shake her. Instead, he clenched his fingers against his trousers. “What. Did. Jon. Do?”

“He weighed his options and did what he thought was necessary.” Basira glanced at the tapes. “Resign Martin and get out of here while you still can. It doesn’t matter what you’re doing with Peter, there’s no point anymore.”

Basira stood up, pausing at the door before glancing at him from over his head. “If you—” she shook her head “—after you listen to those tapes, I… I’ll have my phone if you need to talk.”

Then she was gone.

Martin had no idea how long he spent staring at the tapes. Seconds, minutes, hours? Martin couldn’t find himself to care as his earlier panic vanished into nothingness. When he finally was able to pull his attention from the tapes, he was turning on his computer and beginning a resignation letter of his own. The numb feeling only grew as he found writing his resignation to be as simple as just typing it out. Nothing but a few sentences detailing his immediate termination from his employment. So simple, unlike his first few attempts. He printed it, stacked it with the rest, and left it on Peter’s desk.

The trip home was uneventful. The underground muted and cold with the crowds trying their best to avoid him. No one stood within arm’s reach, no one even looked his way. Martin dispassionately watched one nervous woman hug herself tightly, fog drifting from her trembling lips. He could almost taste the solitude that stuck to her like a parasite. A certain grief that consumed the hollow space in her heart. Martin turned away, closing his eyes and taking deep breaths as the preferred numb feeling settled back down. He spent the rest of the trip staring at his bag, mind empty from the speculation of what the tapes held.

Finally, he entered his flat, resting his forehead against the door for a second after locking it. Never had Martin been so thankful as to finally be home. But the relief only lasted a second before he remembered what he needed to do. He considered making tea, but when he turned around, he didn’t have the energy to do more than collapsed onto the loveseat. Not like he could feel enough to enjoy a warm mug.

Despite the enormity of what they contained, the tapes felt entirely too light as he settled them on the coffee table. His eyelids drooped, but he fought against his exhaustion to grab a tape—the Gertrude one—and slide it into the tape recorder. He ignored the way his hands shook as he pressed play. The conversation that started was one between Gertrude Robinson and the late Eric Delano. He spoke of his relationship with Mary Keay, his son, his time with the Institute.

Eric talked about how he quit.

How he should’ve quit.

With a horrible thought, Martin realized what Jon had done.

**_I think I would have done it too, for Gerry’s sakes. Lucky you, huh?_ **

Jon didn’t tell him.

**_Lucky me._ **

Martin picked it up and slammed it at the nearest wall, heaving as he clutched at his hair.

No. No no, no. Jon wouldn’t. He wouldn’t.

Would he?

He stared over at the other tape, feeling nausea rise as he stared at the bloody flecks.

The numb sensation rolled back over him, like gentle waves tugging at him to let go and just float away. The recorder was too far away and he was too tired to get up and grab it. So he relented, wedging his large body in the love seat and curling into a ball as his eyes kept trained to the tape. Huddling in his jumper, he laid there for hours, the sunlight from the window beginning to dim and darken into night. Time seemed to chug on, the blood flecks glowing with its knowledge of what the second tape contained. If Martin didn’t listen to it, then its contents didn’t exist.

He could only hold onto that thought for so long.

A tape recorder appeared next to the tape. This one not recording, the little door open to reveal the empty cavern inside. That was all the prompting he needed.

Martin stretched out his hand, grasping the second tape and sliding it into the device. He closed his eyes, basking in the feeling of nothingness, allowing his hand to reach out and pushed the tape in with a click. All he had to do was press play, yet… he couldn’t help but stare at it. Maybe if he didn’t, if he just shoved the whole thing in the darkest corner of his flat, it wouldn’t exist. Playing the button felt like the end of the world. As if it would complete a ritual and summon the Entities. He just didn’t want to do it.

Martin took a slow breath in, roiling stomach the only thing disrupting the cold.

He settled his finger on the button.

Then he exhaled.

Click.

The tape whirled along, static filling the air for a few seconds before Martin heard his voice. Curled up in the loveseat, Martin closed his eyes and listened to Jon speak.

**_I—uh—I suppose I’m as prepared as one could be during these circumstances. Why not make it a statement? For—heh—for old times' sake._ **

Measured breaths took over a few seconds, in and out with a brief pause in between. Exhales rattled, sobs threatening to breach the forced calm Jon couldn’t seem to maintain. The seconds stretched before his breaths became even.

 ** _Statement of Jonathan Sims, the Archivist, regarding… well, what it means to be the Archivist._** The last word was drawn out in a chuckle, humorless and weary. He sounded _so_ tired.

**_A researcher promoted with no archival experience or qualifications? I admit I never considered how odd my promotion was until Georgie enlightened me on the matter. It’s left me much to consider, first and foremost on the why. What was it that made us qualified to work in these archives? Why was I the best choice among us? I suspect my promotion was related to my rather unpleasant experience with Mr. Spider, but beyond that, I have not a clue. Regardless of the why, I must recognize the unique… opportunity I’ve been presented with._ **

**_Self-mutilation is not the only way to leave the Institute. I—I—_** the static wasn’t loud enough to stifle the horrendous retching, and neither did it cover the strangled sobs that followed. **_Beholding doesn’t even want me t-to—to think about it. I-I can f-f-feel it_ clawing _through, trying to keep me from accessing this knowledge. I suppose that is the benefit of serving the Ceaseless Watcher and its devoted thirst for fear and knowledge. All it can do is make me feel miserable, b-but not for-for long. Pity for Eric Delano to have found an alternative method of quitting after blinding himself. Perhaps sight would have made the difference in his survival._**

**_Now the question I must ask myself: what does it mean for me to be the Archivist? What is it about changing into a monster and not caring about the trauma I’ve inflicted? Whatever it is—whatever creature I am becoming—I imagine the results will not bode well for any of us. I can’t blame the others on their antagonism, not since they discovered my—ah—dietary needs. Regardless of my differing opinions over my growing inhumanity, I care little for what Elias has planned for me. What’s the point of removing that bullet from Melanie’s leg, or pulling Daisy from the coffin, if we are all met with a worse fate from failing to stop Elias’s plans._ **

**_There’s a statement from the man that lives in the flat two floors above me. A nurse touched by the End dozens of times. Far more tempting than this macabre spread before me. But I must view my status as the Archivist from beyond my personal feelings, especially in consideration of my predecessor. Gertrude Robinson proved to be ruthless with no regard to those under her charge and while effective, I—_** he sighed **_—after what happened with Sasha and Tim, I disagree with those particular methods. However, a lesson to learn from Gertrude is it doesn’t matter what Elias or even the Eye wants from me as an Archivist. In the end, neither can stop me aside from murder and—hah—that would do nothing to stop me._** A steady tapping started. It sounded like metal and the thought sent an icy jolt down Martin’s spine. **_I’ve considered telling the others and how much I should disclose._**

Another sigh. **_Melanie’s the only one desperate enough. Telling them about the eye-gouging will most likely result in only her escape. I rather not receive the same treatment as Elias from her either. Asking Daisy… well, that would not be fair, not with her struggles against the Hunt. Basira would hinder more than help. Martin… and Martin—no, Martin is not an option. I’m the only one reckless and—_** a chuckle **_—frankly foolish enough._**

 ** _So, what does it mean to be the Archivist?_** The tapping stopped. The static accentuated the hysteria that poured from Jon’s laugh. Martin could almost imagine his wry smile as he continued, **_Well if neither the Eye nor Elias will tell me, I must determine my own definition. I am the Archivist and my role is to care for the lives and safety of my current assistants: Basira Hussain, Daisy Tonner, Melanie King, and—despite his current associations—Martin Blackwood. The archival assistants should be valued as more than pawns and cannon fodder._**

**_And I—ah—I’m sorry. You were right, I didn’t want it to be my decision. And I—uh—I’m sorry I wasn’t completely honest with you. Would it be too selfish to ask you not to think less of me? I—I value your opinion greatly. And please—_ please _—leave._ _I know you have plans with dealing with Peter Lukas and I trust you. I trust you so, so much, but I do not trust Peter. He’s as dangerous as all the other monsters._**

**_I guess it is time to discover if I’ll become human again or if I’ve gone too far. Either way, I will be removing the Archivist and that—that will allow the others to escape. If these should be my final words, then I—uh—I guess I’m sorry. I’m sorry for all the misery I’ve caused._ **

**_End—_** Jon’s breathing grew louder, bordering on hyperventilation **_—recording._**

The silence was damning.

Whatever Jon did when he ended his recording, Martin didn’t need to think hard to know. The end result was obvious. There was no third chance for the Archivist. There was no waking up for Jonathan Sims.

Emotions were still strangely missing. Didn’t Martin care that Jon had just—had just---

It was a statement. Just treat it like a statement.

Martin pulled out his phone, scrolling through the local news. It was another statement and all statements needed follow-up information. Confirm the validity of the statement giver, after all, weren’t there hundreds of false statements Martin had to rifle through over the years? A thirty-two-year-old man was still too tragically young to die without appearing in the news—

_London man found mutilated in flat._

The date was just two days after Martin’s last conversation with Jon. His fingers hovered over the link, ready to press it and read about how Jonathan Sims was not human enough to survive severing his ties with the Eye.

Then the tears broke through, starting as a low rumble from his throat and escalating into full chest wracking sobs. Tears and snot poured down as he dropped his phone and clutched the last recording of Jonathan Sims. He gasped for breaths, unable to resist the onslaught of grief that broke through the numbness he desperately clung to.

In the cold, empty flat, it took hours before the sobs trailed into silence as exhaustion dragged Martin into a fitful sleep.

When he woke up, he took the tape out and stumbled to his bed. He clutched the tape close in one hand and his cell in the other, curled up in his bed beneath the duvet. Drifting in and out, Martin was aware only that days passed by the fluctuating light from his lone window. How many, he didn’t know—or cared. Not when he could spend the rest of his days just laying there until Peter Lukas showed up to claim him to the Lonely.

Eventually, he did read the article.

He spent that day cycling between dry heaving over the side of his bed and sobbing. It wasn’t just that Jonathan Sims wasn’t human enough. No, apparently the Eye did not take kindly to Jon’s rebellion. And it wasn’t quick about it either. It was surprising that tapes hadn’t been drenched in his blood rather than the splattering it got. Martin tried to forget the article.

A later day found Martin staring at the wall. He thought about his lonely childhood and a terrible mother. He thought of his excitement about the job offer from the Magnus Institute and how it solved his money problems. He thought of Tim and Sasha and the months spent in happy ignorance. Then he thought of Jon. He thought of all the times he brought him tea. He thought of Jon’s rare smiles. He thought of the transformation from the inexperienced head archivist trying to prove to everyone he was worthy of the promotion to the downtrodden, sleep-deprived Archivist. Martin thought of the times Jon criticized Martin’s horrendous work and the times Jon offered to help. Martin thought of the last day he saw him.

And how he failed to save Jonathan Sims from himself.

 _And please—_ please _—leave._

Martin sat up in his bed, looking around his fog-covered room. Sliding each leg out from bed, he plugged in his phone and waited for it to charge. Once he was able to turn it on, he sent a text to Basira and waited. True to her word, Basira responded immediately, checking to see how he was doing, if he needed anything. She could probably see the lies in his short responses, which was likely the reason she invited him out tonight.

Getting dressed was far beyond Martin’s capabilities. Every action was difficult like every movement was done through thick sludge. Maybe it was the fog that curled into every space. He was still wearing the trousers from the day he left the institute and the ratty, oversized jumped would just have to make do. A glance in the mirror showed the mess his unruly hair made. He considered taming the curls, but he was already running ten minutes late. The pub wasn’t too far. Plus, the added benefit of being a late weekday and at a less popular spot ensured the place wasn’t crowded. It was easy to spot the group, sitting at the table in the corner away from the rest. Not that these people were particularly difficult to miss.

Daisy was pale, her hair partially obscured her pinched face with its limp and greasy locks. She looked halfway to starvation with exhaustion etched around her sunken eyes. Beside her sat Basira, her steadfast image ruined by the dark bruises that marred the skin beneath her eyes. She had a hand clenched against Daisy’s biceps, as if too scared to let go. Next to them were Georgie and Melanie, the former with a tight arm wrapped around the latter. Georgie’s hair had been tied up into a messy ponytail, her _What the Ghost?_ shirt faded from too many washes. Melanie looked healthier than he had ever seen her, offering a small smile. They greeted him and offered a seat, going right back to their current discussion.

He tried. He really did try, but apparently going out to socialize was a bit much after spending god knows how long stewing by himself in his flat. Their conversation was too fast for him to keep up. Whenever he thought to add his own opinion, he hesitated. These people, did he know them? Not really, not the way he knew Tim and Sasha. Not the way he knew Jon. He didn’t have anything interesting to add to the conversation. He wasn’t important to any of them the way they were important to each other. Basira’s offer was probably just made out of pity. So he found himself just sitting there, waiting for an opportunity to join and feeling more like an outsider with every passing minute.

He didn’t care about these people. Not like he did with Sasha, Tim, and Jon.

“This was a mistake.” Martin didn’t mean to say it out loud. And neither did he mean to allow the fog in as they others blinked towards him in confusion before continuing their discussion. He stood up and walked out of the pub. Not a single soul noticed.

Night ruled the streets outside, the streetlights providing illumination as Martin set off down the walkway. He walked and walked and walked, ignoring the way the buildings were obscured by the growing fog. He thought back on his life and every little mistake he’s made. Then he thought once more of his last conversation with Jon.

 _Well, I’ll be here, if you ever need me_.

Guess that was a lie too.

Martin breathed, his breath puffing out in white clouds as his eyes spotted the lone pedestrian ahead of him. The man was slouched in his long coat with shoulders hunched and hat tilted over his eyes as he meandered down the sidewalk. Martin could sense it, the grief that smothered the stranger. Pity for him that he was unlucky enough to be caught by himself with a monster. His scream was short-lived, wiped away from the gust of wind that Martin embraced as the two were transported from the dark streets of London to a far-reaching field. Rather than grass, the ground was covered with an army of gravestones standing at attention like gleaming soldiers. The man Martin trapped fell to his knees, his mouth gaped open in a silent cry as fog gushed from between his lips. He held out a shaking hand towards the nearest gravestone. Then he sat back on in his heels, hands limp against his lap as his head drooped to his chest.

The man was so _lonely._

_The Lonely’s really got you, hasn’t it?_

“Yeah,” Martin whispered, “it always will.”

**Author's Note:**

> Welp, I wished I could write more fluffy things for a tragic podcast, but oh well.
> 
> Thank you for taking the time to read, feel free to let me know what you think!
> 
> CW:  
> -suicide  
> -self-harm/self-mutilation  
> -depression  
> -anxiety  
> -vomiting  
> -social anxiety/isolation  
> -death and grief  
> -really, everything associated with the Lonely  
> -implied starvation  
> -implied insominia
> 
> Let me know if I missed anything that should be added to this list.


End file.
